


Colloquy

by sparklyfaerie



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyfaerie/pseuds/sparklyfaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He whispers Gallifreyan words into her skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colloquy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who or anything associated with it. All rights to Doctor Who and affiliated products belong to the BBC and the other proper entities.

He whispers to her in Gallifreyan.

She doesn’t understand the words; his language is long since dead. He gets about by speaking Human English by day, when they’re running around and saving civilisations, meeting and greeting people and toppling tyrants. He only really needs one language, since the TARDIS translates; and, since most of his companions have been English-speaking, he’s adopted it as the one he speaks most often.

But the quiet times, when it’s just the two of them, he likes to murmur all sorts of things to her that human languages just can’t convey. His people, he’d once told her, had so many more words, so many more sentiments to express. He whispers them all into her skin, wrapping himself around her, running his hands over any length of exposed skin he can find. Sometimes he translates for her, but not always; the words for happiness. The word for completeness. The word for that sense of peace that envelops a person when all is right in their world. The many words for love.

So many words for love.

She identifies a few, recognises endearments when he uses them, sometimes whispers them back. In true River fashion, the first word she masters is the closest Gallifreyan word for ‘sweetie’; he particularly enjoys hearing her murmur it into his neck during their more intimate moments.

Sometimes he just talks, without needing her to understand. The TARDIS doesn’t translate his native tongue, recognising that he’s not really telling her anything, just spilling words from his lips with no real thought. Often, when he does this, he traces the words onto the skin of her arms, or through her trousers, which she  _can_  understand, and she manages to piece together what he’s telling her without him needing to consciously teach it.

One evening before bed, after a particularly vicious cyberman attack on a planet a million light-years away from Earth, they sit in the open door of the TARDIS and watch a black hole devour a star, his back to the doorframe and her back to him. It’s quiet; they’re both recovering, empty glasses sitting forgotten on the stairs by the console. He’s murmuring to her, tracing simple Gallifreyan symbols into her skin.

He traces the words for ‘ _friend_ ’ and ‘ _nobility_ ’ on her bare thigh, and it doesn’t take her long to realise that he’s telling her of Donna Noble, the friend he’d had and lost before her parents. She doesn’t make out the specifics of what he is saying, but easily identifies the words for ‘ _brilliance_ ’ and ‘ _pride_ ’, ‘ _regret_ ’ and ‘ _guilt_ ’. She stills his fingers, traces the word for ‘ _understanding_ ’ on the back of his hand, raises it to her lips. He pauses before dropping a kiss to her shoulder.

He tells her of his other friends—Martha, and her strength and determination. Mickey, and his growth. Jack, and his bravery. Sometimes he speaks of her parents, the word for ‘ _family_ ’ leaving warm trails, tingling on her skin and echoing in her mind. In the lost words of his people, he speaks of their bravery, and their sacrifices, and his regret. Each and every time, she gives him the same answer; her understanding, and her warmth. He even tells her of Rose, once. The great affection he’d had for the young girl, his gratefulness that she gave him a shoulder to lean on when he’d needed it most.

She traces one of the words for ‘ _love’_  onto his hand; a question.

He pauses.

‘ _Past_ ’.

 

* * *

 

She slips further into the Doctor’s past and into the days before their marriage. The first time she sees him before their wedding, he still knows who she is, but is shocked when she calls him endearments in his language. She immediately retreats, stammering apologies and the word “ _spoilers_ ”, hiding something from him for the first time.

He later hunts her down in the depths of the TARDIS and tries to speak to her in Gallifreyan, and she has to explain that she doesn’t  _know_  the language; just that she’d picked some up from him over the years. He asks how many years, and she gives another smile and says the word again.

She doesn’t allow herself to slip any more when she’s with a younger Doctor. She speaks with him in English, letting him believe that she’s just another human that stumbled into his life, swearing in French and German when the situation  _really_  calls for it. He is never any the wiser about her understanding the endearments he whispers to the TARDIS, stroking the console gently.

She shakes her head and tells herself not to be jealous of a  _machine_ .

 

* * *

 

She still meets with her husband, thought not as frequently as she’d like. He stresses that she must make sure that his younger self thinks that they are strictly back-to-front—she doesn’t understand why, but she mentions it a few times to the younger versions and hopes that it’s enough.

She reaches the trip to nineteen sixty-nine, and for the first time she’s at a loss as to how to handle the Doctor. She’s always known where she stands with him—but having to handle a shaken Amy and Rory, who don’t know that the Doctor that they saw shot ‘dead’ on the beach is actually fine (and is headed for their wedding),  _and_  a Doctor who is downright suspicious of her… well, she’s surprised she’s holding up this well.

But he still acts like they’re together, flirting and teasing, and she thinks that maybe it’s only just early in their courting for him. So, it’s only when she kisses him by the bars of her cell—and he looks at her with such  _surprise_ —that she realises that  _that_  is where his relationship with her begins, and she can’t help but feel hurt.

It’s not his fault.

She knows  _that_ .

She curses their timelines. Angry at the Universe for doing this to her, for giving her such a tangled life. Forcing her to lie to preserve her past. For giving her this version of the man she loves, but only giving  _him_  some kind of vague interest in her. And he will have even less of one the next time she sees him.

Frustrated, she punches in the coordinates for a moment in time she’s been putting off; the Doctor will be angry with her, where she’s going, but she’s looking forward to it. Looking forward to sucker punching him with the unfairness of her life, even if it’s not fair on him. But with the way he smiles when he realises just  _what_  she’s telling him, she can’t bring herself to be cross any more.

It’s  _not_  his fault, after all, no matter what she’d just told him.

 

* * *

 

He’s waiting when she gets back to her cell.  _Her_ Doctor, the one who knows her inside out and speaks to her in forgotten, lyrical languages.

They spend the evening wrapped up in their sheets, whispering lyrical words, breathing endearments onto each other’s skin. It’s not the first time they’ve had such a night, but it’s the first time she’s  _really_  appreciated how well he knows her. How much he trusts her, loves her. How he feels comfortable enough in her presence to speak his long-forgotten, secret language.

He whispers Gallifreyan words into her skin.

She whispers them back.


End file.
